


Stomp and Grind

by tealuvhonor



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: "But why does-" it's the Force it's fine, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Childhood Trauma, Dry Humping, F/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Table Sex, Time Skips, Voice Kink, baby Yoda just vibing, catching feelings, sexy single dad rediscovers emotional connection, space alcohol that I read about on wookiepedia lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21954169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealuvhonor/pseuds/tealuvhonor
Summary: Delirium[ dih-leer-ee-uh m ] - a state of violent excitement or emotion.A Mandalorian walks into a bar, and it's only a matter of time before he ruins your life.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 155





	Stomp and Grind

**Author's Note:**

> What better gift could I give to my decrepit AO3 account than a new fic that resolves none of my several other unfinished ones? No seriously, I didn't expect to enjoy The Mandalorian as much as I did so I'm having a ton of fun with this. Happy holidays Mando fam 
> 
> Title is inspired by Stomp and Grind by Grandma/Rico Nasty solely because I listened to it like 50 times while writing drunk.

Business was booming, so to speak. 

The lower city joint was what you considered to be comfortably packed from your own familiar spot behind the bar, tucked decisively away from the thunderous energy of colorful clientele. Every booth, table, and stool was spoken for, with excess patrons clamoring to huddle around large groups engaged in conversation or bravely attempt to wrassle their way toward you to gruffly request an order. Evidently, there wasn’t enough starfire ‘skee in the system to keep these thugs sated.

You couldn’t scarcely remember a time that you’d seen the cantina as packed as this. When you took the bartending job initially, Taris was no better than a ghost town, a rusted broken-down shell of what it once was pre-civil war. Truthfully, the history of the planet you called home was one muddled with class warfare and deception, but Taris proved to be prime real estate for the galaxy’s most morally ambiguous, despite remaining 70% decaying rubble and 30% ocean. 

See, the thing about Taris was that it had served as the galaxy’s punching bag for thousands of years for a reason. In its heyday, over 60 billion Tarisians resided on the planet’s surface, whether they were privileged enough to afford upper city apartments or otherwise. It was an almost perfect waypoint between Hutt Space and Coruscant, two other juggernauts of industry. Skyscrapers towered hundreds of stories high, breaching the cloud cover so unremittingly that the naked eye might’ve deemed them towers to the heavens. 

Only, unlike any other ecumenopolis, Taris was perfectly stationed within the Outer Rim, which naturally meant that nobody was enforcing shit. 

All this made it a haven for bounty hunters and travelers alike, or really anyone who sought to make some quick currency without answering to a higher authority. 

To distance yourself from that way of life would be absurd. After all, you weren’t just any run of the mill barkeep. Your status as an informant was well kept, but implied, as many of the businesses in the lower city area were not what they seemed at first glance. The man that owned the establishment had connections to smugglers, Separatists, Galactic Alliance politicians- you name it. 

Live music began to blare from the stage, prompting another eruption of movement from the crowd as clusters of people began to siphon onto the dance floor, faces alight with the elation that only a back-alley watering hole could inspire. 

You finish emptying out a glass of something neon green and cloudy, handing it swiftly to the worker droid for cleaning, and shift to lean forward against the counter when a silvery glint catches your eye, weaving within the crowd but out of sight in a mere flash. Craning your neck to identify it once more, your attention is forcibly yanked away by...ugh.

“It’s been too long,” drawled a familiar voice from beyond the bar, and you were instantly relieved to have said barrier in place. The speaker was a Balosar gang member that you distinctly remember from the week before, having had the privilege of cleaning up after him when he couldn’t hold his liquor. The ordeal only came after his vehement effort to coax you into a date. For three hours straight. 

He was a lanky young thing, fresh off the docking bay from his homeworld. His clothes were disheveled, but only just enough that it was evident he was trying too hard to appear rugged. His eyes were glazed over this time, though, and you could tell he was barely lucid. You couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he’d last if staying in town was part of his MO. 

“Not long enough, Bez,” you retort, instinctively. Funnily enough, your second instinct was to casually slide your hand underneath the glossy tabletop to grasp the handle of a blaster you kept at arm’s reach for safety reasons. You wouldn’t need it, necessarily, but perhaps you could chase him away so as to not be doomed to a shift spent babysitting. It was either that or staging a brawl, which sounded like way too much work. 

“You know I couldn’t keep myself away for- hey, what the-” 

While Baz was presumably gearing up to give his new and improved pitch, you were checking the barrel of your WESTAR-34 while your hip shifted to rest snugly against the nearby pillar. 

“Oh, by all means, keep going,” you continue, the faint echo of a smile edging across your cheeks. You were occupying yourself with polishing the hilt using your jacket sleeve, watching the refraction of light bounce erratically from multicolored lamps overhead. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but I’m here to speak to a man named Jigo Delac. Is he here?” 

It’s amazing how the specific cadence of someone’s voice can carry such depth and promise, especially if it’s being augmented by a modulator. It was undeniable; your attention was captured in an instant. 

You expected Baz to do something idiotic and ask who the fuck this guy thought he was talking to, but he seemed to slink away almost immediately. 

Once you raised your head, you understood why. 

“Rough timing, friend. You just missed him,” you respond swiftly, adjusting your gaze higher to meet the stranger’s eyes but finding the distinct gleam of a t-visor instead. Of course. 

Your shoulders do something funny, not quite tensing up but rather rolling back as your posture shifted. The lone figure was taller than you by a couple inches from what you could tell, seemingly armored in beskar from head to toe. Well, that was what you assumed, given that anything below his chestplate was obscured by your little firewater-filled enclosure. 

“But…,” you continue melodically, drawing out the word while simultaneously leaning in his direction until your elbows brushed the tabletop, “He’ll be back soon. You can hang tight ‘till then, if you want.”

Okay, that was a lie, and a pretty big one as well, considering that your boss had left on business two cycles ago and wouldn’t return for three more. It’s just that something was telling you not to let this one walk away so easily. To see the crowd consume him once again and be devoid of alluring conversation for the rest of the night was an unbearable consequence to dwell on. 

He wasn’t the first Mandalorian you had the fortune of seeing in person. Their kind was few, practically archaic, and prone to isolation, but Taris was a hub for anyone interested in mercenary work. It was along the Hydian Way as well, previously passing through what scholars referred to as the Mandalorian Road. 

You motioned for him to sit with a quick nod of your head and watched the stranger, this Mandalorian, exhibit an apprehensive indication before settling down on the stool directly in front of you. His helmet, though decisively tinted, left room for some expressiveness. Even though you couldn’t perceive any facial articulation, his body language spoke for itself. 

Somebody further down the line flagged you down for a drink, and so you shifted into mixology mode, grabbing bottles off the wall. The man’s presence was certainly assertive. It was also strangely serene, as the two of you sank into a comfortable silence over the next twenty minutes. 

His stoicism was kind of intriguing you, though. That whole crowd wasn’t really known for their talkative nature. Still, you were growing more intent on picking his brain.   
A lull in drink orders prompted you to retrieve two short glasses and plunk them down between the two of you. 

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?” 

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” he said, and you could sense he was looking at you. If you didn’t know better, you would say he was meeting your eyes. 

“Is it uh, because of the…?,” you brought a finger up to trace the outline of your own jaw in an allusion to the helmet which remained on; this was according to religious protocol, you had heard. 

“Mostly, yes.” 

You nodded slowly, pouring a shot in each glass anyways. 

“Guess I’ll pick up your slack,” you respond curtly, proceeding to throw back both of them.

You could’ve sworn you heard a low hint of laughter from under his breath. 

______________

“I just now realized that you never told me your name.”

The roar of the late night crowd had all but died out, leaving wide open space at a nearby table. You had happily hurdled the bar as you’ve done a thousand times before, tossing a rag to KO-6D as you went. Hours had passed, and you suspected the moons to set soon enough. If he realized something was suspect, he hadn’t let on, instead choosing to trade stories for a while. 

“Most people just end up calling me Mando,” he answered. He seemed relieved to see the labor droid power down fully, and reclined a little further back in his chair. 

Your acquaintance, now Mando, had taken the seat opposite you once again. You drew your knees close to your chest, forever unable to sit in a chair correctly. 

“Alright, short for Mandalorian. That’s what you are, but not who you are though, y’know?” 

“Should I cut you off?” The tone was playful, and you matched his sarcasm with an airy giggle that trailed off with the surety that he was staring at you again. 

Silence hung like a star in the sky for 10 palpable seconds before you blurted out,

“I might’ve uh...underestimated Jigo’s penchant to turn an errand into a business trip. I’m sorry if I wasted your time.” 

Now you were stressing a little bit. Was he gonna be pissed? Even worse, would he leave?

Unable to cope with the uncertainty, you get up to go hop onto the bar, perched with your legs dangling off the edge in a sort of retreat. 

“Yeah, I gathered that about an hour ago,” Mando said, mostly unfazed. He tilted his head inquisitively, as if he wanted you to finish a thought.

“Did I waste your time, though?” The second you say it, you want to groan at how stupid it sounds. 

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, trust me.”

There was a pronounced softness to that statement, and it brought heat rising to the surface of your cheeks. You were looking very hard at the floor, but you heard a distant shifting from his chair as he went to stand before you, leaving just enough room so that you could get down if you wanted to, but you were close enough to see your own reflection in the helmet. 

The courage to look back at him accrued slowly but surely, and you reached for his gloved hand first, as a test.

He allowed you to take it, but did little else. 

“I don’t usually…” he trailed off a bit shakily, a surprising display of shyness from someone who spoke with such conviction. You noticed at this proximity that his shoulders, pauldrons or no, were broad as hell.   
You nodded faintly, finding an explanation needless. Your thumb ghosted over the material covering his palm, and you attempted to tug him closer by the arm.

“C’mere,” is what you could muster, and it worked well enough judging by the way he shifted to settle his arms at your waist. You were drawn in from the get go, but steeled yourself enough to reach for the surface of his chest plating first, letting your hands skim the expanse before landing tentatively on his shoulders. 

Effects of the firewater still burned faintly within your chest, swirling around in a vortex of confusion and anticipation and more strikingly, want. 

Paying attention to where the beskar plating met twiny, thick fabric, you grasped tighter as if to soothe the tension from his neck. Body heat was radiating from the juncture between his neck and shoulder and you felt the strongest urge to bury your face into it. 

Just when you expected it the least, he hooked both of his hands underneath your knees, pulling you closer with ease until he was properly stood between your legs. 

You had a bit of a height advantage, situated on the chilly slab of synrock. Thankfully, you’d cleared it off earlier, but broken glass wouldn’t have stopped either of you. 

You were caught in a light gasp, suddenly at a much closer proximity. Both of his hands settled steadily on your clothed outer thighs. Clearly, you would be thrilled to be rid of every layer, to feel how rough his palms were from the strain of combat as they dug into your bare skin. It was increasingly apparent, though, that this type of intimacy was already pushing his boundaries. Try as he might to inhibit it, you could detect a tremor in his breaths that you couldn’t resist trying to soothe. 

You leaned back briefly in order to shrug the patched bomber jacket off of your shoulders and land on the floor, neglected. All that remained was your black sleeveless top, which was already beginning to ride up on your torso, prompting goosebumps to form. 

You were mindful of the blaster at his hip, as well as the blades sheathed along his thigh, but knew better than to think they posed a danger. Nobody had a bounty out on you, surely. Your boss took good care of his charges, provided protection. If you were being tracked, Jigo would be the first to know. 

Slowly, you wind your arms around the Mandalorian’s neck until your forehead meets the front of his helmet with a gentle thud. Eyes lidded, you spent a moment just like that, imagining what exactly the galaxy was playing at by bringing this masked bounty hunter to your cantina. 

You felt his hands hover at your waist for a beat before one came to grip your inner thigh, and you decided then that this slow burn was no good for your nerves. 

“Does a girl have to beg for it?” You ask at a half-whisper, fingers skimming the contours of the helmet. 

It seemed like this one was full of surprises. In an instant, he was lifting you and making short work of your pants, which you suspect ended up on the floor as well. Left feeling significantly underdressed and equally aroused, you could do nothing but hold on tight as the hand that wasn’t holding you steady brushed your inner thighs, inching ever closer to where you needed it most. 

It didn’t even bother you that his gloves remained on, and you arched into his palm, muttering obscenities while he palmed you over your underclothes.

“Only if you want to,” he retorted, more than a little breathless himself. You made an instinctive reach for the sizable tent below his belt, feeling a jolt of satisfaction when he dropped his head onto your shoulder with a low groan. 

You sure as hell didn’t see it happen, but Mando yanked the glove off his right hand and proceeded to continue teasing you. 

Whimpering in realization, you understood that he wanted to feel for himself whether you were soaked through your panties.

The answer was yes. 

Every part of you was screaming for him, eager to come apart under his hands as he busied himself parting the fabric to give you even better friction. One finger slipped in easily, and two had you keening within his grasp. He was enveloping you, and you felt yourself going mad with it, especially when you inhaled to draw in his scent.

It became apparent that this wasn’t his first rodeo, so to speak. He was crooking his fingers so precisely, kneading the heel of his wrist into your most sensitive area, avoiding any direct contact that would make you flinch or shy away. Within minutes, you were nearing your climax at breakneck speed. 

“Go ahead,” he urged, voice alight with the anticipation of witnessing your peak. His hips had been canting against you with his own need, seemingly not of his own accord, and the prospect of getting him over the edge as well made a whimper bubble to the surface of your chest while you spasmed fiercely on his fingers. 

All the Imperial troops in the galaxy couldn’t stop you from dropping to your knees after that. One moment, you were mouthing his clothed length, and the next, he was gripping the edge of the table and moaning words of encouragement, even as he came. 

It boggled your mind to think that a brief, frankly juvenile sexual encounter could feel meaningful, dare you say...intimate? Living on the lawless side of the systems had its perks, but trustworthy confidants were in short supply; and people that you’d allow in your bed, even shorter. 

The two of you spent a good while catching your breath. You threw the bounty hunter a hand towel, exchanging quips like you’d known each other for years. That fondness, the heart-wrenching ease with which he ran his fingers through your hair- that was worth something. 

When you parted ways, you were leaning gingerly against the doorway, having had the pleasure of flustering your Mandalorian all over again after standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to the beskar where his cheek would be. 

As you watched him take his leave under the heavy shadow of Taris’ moons, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being sentenced to a great deal of waiting. For what, you didn’t yet understand. 

There were worse things than that.


End file.
